


that's in the past

by bacchusofficial



Series: prompts from the blue place [3]
Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Face Punching, Introspection, M/M, Post-Canon, that's right chaboy did one of 'em
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-15
Updated: 2018-04-15
Packaged: 2019-04-23 11:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14331942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bacchusofficial/pseuds/bacchusofficial
Summary: The first thought Kepler had after he died was,This is not hell.





	that's in the past

**Author's Note:**

> for the anonymous prompts "Forget it" and "That's in the past." thanks, anonymous! remember folks, you can always send in prompts to my tumblr @bacchusofficial.
> 
> edit: ps i changed the title bc i forgot about continuity of title style in this series

The last thought Kepler had before he died was of a verse he hadn’t heard since childhood, and how funny it was that his destruction reminded him of the Creation.

The last thought Kepler had before he died was Genesis 2:1.  _Thus the heavens and the earth were finished, all the host of them_.

And the evening and the morning were the sixth day, and that was that, and, all things considered, it was good.

The first thought Kepler had after he died was,  _This is not hell._

Unless hell was a beach in San Francisco, chilly and full of rocks, with the night sky neon orange against the distant city. Unless hell smelled like an ocean breeze. Unless hell felt like earth.

The second thought Kepler had after he died was actually a series of thoughts, beginning with  _I have two hands_  and ending with  _I should not be alive_. Or, maybe he wasn't alive, and he'd jumped to the wrong conclusions. Either way, he looked up at the sky until he thought he saw a group of stars glimmer in his direction, then decided it was time to start walking.

He was wearing his old clothes. Clothes he'd had before—well. He'll just leave it at Before. Wool navy peacoat. Old, worn jeans. Comfortable boots that crunched the rocky sand as he walked towards—

Wait.

Where was he going? He had no plan, had no idea where he was, and that bothered him.

No.

That _should_ bother him, but it didn't. Not now. Maybe dying made things like that less important. Maybe he was too busy worrying about how he felt about the way he'd been brought back (was it really _him_ who'd returned, if it wasn't his body, with all its scars and aches?) to worry about not being in control, not seeing the big picture. That thought (his fifth thought) made him laugh, because if only Jacobi could see him now, he'd—

Jacobi.

Kepler stopped walking.

The first thing Kepler said after he died was, "Daniel," in a hoarse, fearful voice.

Kepler started walking again.

 

Three days was a lot of time to think, especially when all you had was your memories and yourself and time. Introspection was easier when you could pretend, for a while, that you were not yourself, but someone years down the line going through memoirs and knowing the context, noticing the bias, realizing that no matter how right someone is (how right you are, you were), they are still wrong somehow, to someone, and that matters.

It took three days to find Daniel (Warren had decided, on the second day, to call him Daniel, because it was softer in his mouth, because he'd never allowed himself to do so Before, and because real people knew each other on a first name basis and, this time, Warren was determined to try to be a real person from the beginning).

Daniel’s house was the kind of house people always daydreamed of having but never really thought they'd have, with blue shutters and a porch swing and a brass door handle, and green grass in the little front yard. Seeing it made Warren feel such a distinct relief that he almost ended it right there, was almost satisfied just knowing Daniel lived in a nice little place like that, in a safe neighborhood where there were lots of trees and sunlight and rainbow flags.

Of course, Warren had never in his life been satisfied, so why would that change just because he'd died?

(Warren had never in his life been a coward, either, so it was strange that, as he walked up the front stairs to Daniel's door, his palms began to sweat.)

He knocked. Four times. Five times. And the evening and the morning were the sixth knock, and the door opened, and there was.

There was Daniel.

If Warren were a weak man he would have fallen to his knees that minute, and kissed the tips of Daniel's fingers and wept for anyone to see.

Warren was not a weak man.

He said, “Nice house."

Daniel's fist cracked into Warren’s teeth and split his lip. Then, while Warren wiped blood off his own mouth with a thumb, Daniel screamed. Loudly, nonsensically, like there was nothing else he could possibly do. That wouldn't work—there were neighbors—so Warren grabbed him by the arms and maneuvered him into the house, shut the door.

" _You_ —you're not—you're dead you're _Dead_ you're DEAD!!" Daniel wrestled with Warren’s arms, shoved his chest.

"Daniel," said Warren. Daniel actually hissed.

"No," he snapped. "No. _No_."

"Daniel," Warren repeated. He stayed calm. It was very important that he stayed calm, even as Daniel continued to lash out, to beat Warren’s chest, to try to claw at his face.

" _Stop_ it—"

A third time, in a soft, urgent voice, Warren said, "Daniel."

Daniel stopped. He breathed like he’d just almost drowned. Warren’s grip tightened on his arms. He was solid, and warm, and real, alive alive alive.

"Daniel," Warren said. "I am so. Sorry."

"For what?" Daniel demanded, but he knew, they both did, so instead of answering, Warren took Daniel's face in his hands and brushed the tears from his cheeks with his thumbs, and this was new, this tenderness, this touch without consequence, without motive or repentance.

Daniel's hands wrapped around his wrists and held tight.

"You  _died_."

Warren shrugged. "Change of plans."

"How—"

"Forget it," said Warren.  _Please_. "That's in the past."

Deep, shuddering breath. Eyes roaming across Warren’s face. "You're different. Your stupid scars are gone."

Warren raised his eyebrows. "Stupid?"

Daniel touched the place on Warren’s lip where a thin white scar had once been, and where blood now welled from Daniel's punch. Then his hand went back to Warren’s hand, the one that shouldn’t exist for more reasons than one but that was now so real on Daniel's cheek.

"I'm so fucking mad at you," Daniel told him. "I really hate you right now."

For the first time since he died, Warren smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! i'm gonna update keep talking soon, i just forgot about this prompt and felt the sudden urge to see it through.


End file.
